During the course of the evening, we were rudely interrupted now and then by Marines who had taken one too many, Marines who had known me here or in Timbuktu or someplace, Marines who had heard about me, Marines who knew friends of mine, and Marines who wished to clarify my ideas surrounding certain instances and incidents which have to do with military men, and Marines who were Johnny’s friends. Every now and then, the garcon would fetch some spots of rum, and someone would sign a chit. They wouldn’t let me pay for anything as usual. A white civilian is a sensation in Cap Haitien, a white civilian with red hair or black hair or any other kind of hair is rarely seen in the Marine’s Club. Add that to the fact that I was known to most of them in one way or another, and you have the hubbub in mind. Every now and then some Marine would insult another Marine and the MPs would rally round. And every time the MPs appeared, a cry would go up for me. I’d put on a stern face of authority, the battlers would subside and the MPs salute me — of course they’d take me for an officer in civvies and leave the place. Following such incidents, triumphs over the law as they were, the garcon would very busily trot out the rum so that everybody could drink to my health. But they never did drink to my health. At the proposal of the toast, I’d shake my head, stand up on a chair and address the multitude in solemn tones to the effect that it was extremely necessary for everyone to drink “to something.” And down the hatch the rum would go.
And the score or so of leathernecks would squint their eyes at me for a moment and then shake their heads. “Dunno what I’m drinking to, old son, but it’s oke with me.” I never explained, except to Johnny.
About eight, we tired of the club and went to a place called Anna Loos which happens to be a bar. By this time, although Johnny had said plenty, he hadn’t given me a very clear idea of what it was all about. He was hiding quite a bit. I knew something was wrong because the kid is a wreck. Then, by piecing remarks together, I found his story.
Six years ago, Johnny Faulkner, Sergeant of Marines, was on duty guarding the mails between Port Huron, Mich. and Chicago. He spent the layover of his run in Port Huron, and in some way became acquainted with the Browning family who, at the time, were living there in toto. He fell in love with Carol, but with the usual Marine brusqueness, didn’t tell her much about it. Didn’t even mention the fact in the three words. Carol was about eighteen then, I suppose. And she never has had a great deal to say. In fact, the only time she ever really told me anything was last winter when the husband of a family she was staying with directed his rather clear and extremely unwanted attentions upon her. Then, as the best friend of her brother, I diplomatically aided her as best I could. There’s a lot of diplomacy in a sock on the nose.
